Set Pen to Paper
by Arwythe
Summary: Erik is persuaded to write his personal history, from birth to life after the opera house fire.
1. Chapter 1

_A note of reassurance: This will not be a story of faith and salvation, honest. Pere Simon is just a character I thought of to get Erik to begin his writing. Pere Simon may figure into the story later on, because I like him. He will not, however be an instrument of salvation for the Phantom. That would be cheesy._

_Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera in any size shape or form, nor do I own its characters. _

PROLOGUE

Pere Simon is an infuriating little man. He seems to know these caverns and tunnels almost as well as I, and

what's worse, he also seems to know how always to find me. Mercifully, he is kept busy tending to his flock of black sheep, and so does not seek me out often. Yet I know with certainty, that eventually he will show up, replete with offerings of ink, nibs and paper, and a mouth full of unsolicited observations and advice. Pah! What does he know? How can a priest, even a defrocked priest like Pere Simon have an inkling of the workings of my mind? I myself do not, and I have had to live with it these thirty-seven years. I do believe that the sly little priest is trying to save my soul, although I'm sure he wouldn't admit to it. How appropriate and how ironic it is! A disgraced priest offering salvation to a fallen angel. Perhaps I shall mention this to Pere Simon, the next time he intrudes. He does have a sense of humor.

Pere Simon has been annoyingly insistent that I begin to put my thoughts, memories and feelings to pen and paper. He claims that it is a most excellent means of purging my self of the demons which torment me. I have tried to tell him that I am quite comfortable with my demons, and do not wish to purge them, but of course he won't listen. How can he, when he's so busy telling me what is good for me?

The hours hang heavily tonight. I have accomplished all that I'd intended to do. I've made my nightly progress through these tunnels and caverns, and worked as much as I need to on my new aria. I've engaged in the little pastimes that usually engross me, but tonight they do not hold my attention. My eyes keep wandering to the desk, which is overflowing with unopened ink bottles, pen nibs and fresh, blank writing paper. Damn him, anyway! Perhaps I _shall_ begin an essay of my bitter and pointless life. Perhaps if I do, I shall allow the little pest read my words. It would serve him right to have such things stuck inside _his_ head, as they are in mine. Perhaps then he will finally leave me be. That in itself would be reason enough to set pen to paper.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Everyone knows that, except my cat._

It appears that this will be more difficult than I anticipated. I know which words I wish to begin with, but my mind will not allow the pen to write them. It is most frustrating. The walls I have created to protect myself from my dark memories are not breached so easily, I see.

I shall begin then, not with true memory, but with what has been related to me by another. Perhaps the rest will come more easily once it is started.

My father was a pig. There is no better way to describe him. He was a wealthy and influential pig, however, and so my mother married him. She herself was a lovely thing, I am told, with great musical talent. It is unfortunate that young ladies of my mother's station could only use their talents in the drawing room, and then only as another way to advertise their accomplishments to prospective suitors. One such suitor was the Comte LeMauvoisin, a man of much reputation in Rouen and the surrounding countryside. He was known for his ill temper and brutishness, and it was said that if there was a bed with a woman in it, the Comte LeMauvoisin would be in it as well. Highborn or peasant, pretty or ugly, fat, thin, willing, unwilling; it mattered not. The Comte took them all. It concerned no one that such a young and sensitive girl as my mother should be sacrificed to such a beast. It was a good and appropriate match, benefiting both families, and so the deed was done.

I do not know whether my father brought his illness with him to the marriage, or whether he contracted it afterwards, for he did not cease his "outside activities" for the sake of his new wife. All I know is that he passed it on to my mother, and through her to all of their offspring. The doctor, when he discovered that my father carried this disease, cautioned both of my parents that no children should be conceived of their union. There was, he warned, little possibility of any issue of theirs to survive, and no possibility of a surviving child being anything but defective. My mother was grief-stricken, but my father, pig that he was, took no heed, and eventually my older brother, Etienne was born.

Etienne was born perfectly formed. He was a beautiful infant, with my mother's black hair and deep blue eyes. Both of my parents doted on him, and he was the pride of the household. The only shadow that darkened their joy in their firstborn was that he was a sickly child. The doctor spent more time at the LeMauvoisin estate than he did at his own home, in the first few months of my brother's life. Fortune smiled on Etienne, however, and between the constant care by the army of nurses that my parents hired, and the expertise of Dr. Auclaire, my brother survived. And while he never thrived, he did grow into a bright and active child. My father, ever the ingrate, rather than thanking the good Doctor, taunted him about his dire predictions prior to Etienne's birth. The Doctor, now accustomed to my father's character, merely shrugged and shook his head in disgust.

Soon after it was certain that Etienne would live, my mother again was with child. She gave birth to another boy, whom she called Julien, a name decided upon before his birth. Julien, while quite healthy, had a hideous malformation of the right side of his face, a legacy of the foul infection which resided in his mother's body. My mother fell into a faint at the first glimpse of her new son, and when she revived, she grew hysterical until the infant was removed from her presence. She never was heard in future days to utter the child's name, but referred to him as "That Monster".

And, yes. I am that pitiful misbegotten child. My name is Julien LeMauvoisin. I am a great liar, for I have always known my name, but have chosen "not to remember" when asked. I do not speak it easily, for it tastes like bitter bile on my lips. It causes much chagrin to write it, as well, although I must from time to time. I detest the name just as much as my dear mother did. I chose the name Erik from an adventure book I read as a child. I liked the name because it sounded strong and brave, and not at all like some one who could be beaten, despised and neglected. I have been Erik ever since then, and in my mind that is truly who I am. But, I digress.

I am told that I nearly starved to death in the first few weeks of my existence. My parents could not keep a wet nurse in the house. They would take one look my horrible face, and leave. Fortunately they finally found a young girl who'd just lost her infant, and who had no husband and no prospects. They settled an enormous sum of money on her, and she agreed to stay, on the provision that the monster's face be covered in her presence. And so mother's nurse took one of my bonnets, turned it backwards and cut it in half, lengthwise. She then poked an eyehole in it, and voila! I was presented with my first of a life time of masks. I am told that my mother did visit me daily. She would come at the midnight hour when the flickering shadows cast by candle light obscured, at least partially, the hated child. I do not humor myself by thinking that she came out of any love for me. Rather, she came to make sure I was being fed and taken care of. She was mortified to think of what her friends and peer would say about her if a child of the LeMauvoisin family should die of starvation and neglect amidst all of the opulence. As soon as I was weaned, she never came again.

After my birth, there were three more children born to my parents. The next was a little girl, misshapen and grotesquely formed. She lived but three days. Then came a boy, another grotesque, mercifully born dead. It was impossible to tell what sex the last child was, so deformed it was, and this time neither the infant or my mother survived the birthing. I was old enough at this time to know of her passing, but I recall no emotion attached to the loss. I never knew her. I was the Monster she kept hidden away from her, and avoided at all costs. My mother was a ghost to me long before she died.

My father evidenced no grief at the loss of his wife. He merely redoubled his swinish activities, free now to engage in them in his own home. He paid no mind to me except on some occasions when he was entertaining one of his lady friends. Then he would drag me out, have me unmask and then perform like a trained monkey. Sometimes my pathetic antics would be met by raucous and humiliating laughter, but all too often the guest would erupt into shrieks of horror. This displeased my father, and he would beat me into insensibility. The only time I can recall my father touching me was when he beat me.

And so I learned at an early age, how to become invisible. I kept to my small attic room during the day, and would not venture out until all other occupants of the house were asleep. I eventually learned all of the odd little cubbies and hidey holes that old houses harbor, and at the sound of my father's footsteps, I could swiftly disappear. I became stealthy and silent in my movements, and spent my nights exploring the huge old manor house. I especially loved the library. It smelled of dust and well oiled leather, and its walls were lined with wonderful, fascinating books. I spent hours pouring over them, looking at the pictures, and trying to puzzle out what the print might say. Sadly, no one had ever bothered with the Monster's education, or anything at all beyond his basic physical needs….I could not read anything in those marvelous books. Not even a word.

That, then was what my early years were like. I lived like an animal amidst great opulence, with no one to care for me. While my brother Etienne was granted every consideration and entitlement, I was abused, neglected and despised. I could not read nor write, had no inkling of the outside world, and knew nothing better than the wretched life I was subjected to. I cannot imagine what the outcome of that existence would have been, had it not been for Henri.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: You can probably guess that I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Oh, yes…it's all too true. I don't._

I see that I have eased quite readily in my personal recollections. There is a span of time that seems to blend what I truly remember, and what has been related to me, and I am not quite sure which is which. My first clear memory begins with the arrival of Henri.

Henri was from a branch of my family that had fallen on hard times. Their fortune had been lost due to unwise speculation on the Grandfather's part, and Henri's parents lived a life of genteel poverty. Henri himself had received the education that is accorded to boys of his station, but beyond that he lacked any of the advantages that go along with the LeMauvoisin name. By ill chance, Henri lost both of his parents within a year of one another, and at the age of thirteen, he was fostered out to my father. My father of course, felt no familial affection for the boy, and relegated him to a servant's position in the house. Henri seemed to have expected nothing better, as he readily accepted his lot, and set about doing whatever was asked of him, cheerfully and efficiently.

By this time I was so good a being invisible, that Henri did not know of my existence for nearly a month. I had gotten heartily sick of the servants and their constant insults, and so never came near them. Instead, I would raid the kitchen in the midnight hours while everyone was abed. I took to mending my own clothing, cutting my own hair and attending to myself in everyway. The servants, spared the sight of me, never gave me a second thought. It was as if I no longer existed for them. What finally caught Henri's attention was the quantity of food that was missing from the larder each morning. Alarmed, he told the cook that there must be a thief amongst the serving staff. The cook merely laughed, and remarked that it was less a thief, and more a ghost who raided the pantry each night. Seeing Henri's confusion, the rest of the kitchen staff was more than happy to relate the details of the monster child, adding, of course all manner of gory, if untrue details.

And so it was that when I again made my nightly foray to the pantry, someone was waiting for me in the shadows. I was stuffing my mouth and my pockets full when both of my arms were suddenly pinioned to my side. Of course, I was startled out of my wits, and began fighting to escape. In the struggle that ensued, poor Henri, who had no intention of harming me, was kicked, bitten, scratched and punched. Finally his size and weight got the better of me, and I found myself pinned, face down on the floor. I remember tensing, in anticipation of a beating, and asking tremulously: "Who _are_ you, anyway?" In the darkness I heard a soft chuckle. "I am Henri, your cousin", the voice said.

I had come to the kitchen unmasked that night, never expecting to encounter anyone there. Henri, after coaxing me out of the darkness, saw my uncovered face, and did not even flinch. Perhaps the stories of the servants had prepared him for were far worse than what he saw, I do not know. I do know that I live in eternal gratitude to Henri for looking past the face and seeing the small, lonely boy.

I was starved for kindness and companionship, and I got both from Henri. He was my friend and my hero. Soon, he also became my teacher. Late at night, when he should have been sleeping, he sat with me in the library, unlocking the mystery the written word for me. Once he gave me the basic skills, I devoured the secrets inside each book as one starved. We soon discovered that I had an amazing mind, which could record, and understand every bit of knowledge it was fed. And, there was so much to know! Suddenly I was no longer trapped within the confines of my wretched life. My mind took flight, and the books took me anywhere and everywhere. I discovered literature, architecture, and _music_! I learned to read music before I ever touched a keyboard. I knew all of the finger placements, chords and notation before I played my first piece. I would look at written scores, and hear the music in my head. It was wonderful, and I yearned for more.

Happily, Henri understood. One night he led me from the manor house to the family chapel. It had be barely used since my mother's death, and I hadn't even known of its existence. I stood silently as Henry began lighting candles. As the darkness gradually receded, my eyes made out a wondrous sight. There, at the very front of the chapel, framed on both sides by fantastic stained glass windows, was an organ! I believe that Henri had to remind me to breathe. Henri bid me to seat myself, and placed a sheet of music before me. I took a deep breath, placed my fingers on the keys, and began to play. I wish I could write that heavenly music filled the chapel, but that would not be the truth. My fingers were stiff and unaccustomed to playing. They would not do as my mind bid them. The sounds they made were painfully discordant, and I burst into tears of dismay and disappointment. Henri became quite stern with me, as I recall. He commented on my habitual lack of patience, and reminded me about exercise and practice. I knew he was right, of course, and every night from then on, found me in the chapel, doing my exercises, over and over again. When I finally did play that piece again, it _was _heavenly, and once more I cried. This time however, it was from happiness.

The next two years of my life were the best I'd ever known. I had books, my music, and companionship. I became less reclusive, and was seen once more during the daytime. Henri even tried to surreptitiously unite me with my brother . Etienne, who was fast becoming the arrogant young Vicomte that he was supposed to be, had no interest in knowing his ill favored younger brother. That bothered Henri greatly, and me not a bit. I probably held Etienne in as much distaste as he did me.

At the age of nine I composed my first piece. By the age of ten I was composing regularly. I was engrossed, immersed in music. It filled all of the emptiness of my soul. For the first time in my existence I felt whole; complete. I was happy.

But of course, life intrudes.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer, or, Stating the Obvious: I do not own any aspect of Phantom of the Opera, or any of its characters._

For the next two years , I grew almost contented with my lot. It bothered me not a bit that the rest of the household ignored my existence. Rather, it gave me the freedom to pursue my interests unimpeded. I even ceased hiding from my father, once it became apparent that he'd tired of using me for entertainment purposes. After Henri was given charge of the household, from finances to making sure the very last spoon in the kitchen was polished, I saw him rarely. Of course, I missed him sorely, but my studies and most of all, my _music_ engrossed me and in good part made up for his absence.

It was early in my tenth year when my fortunes began to spiral downward once more. It began with the death of my brother Etienne. As I mentioned before, Etienne had been sickly at birth, and he had never enjoyed the hearty constitution that I'd been blessed with. My father's legacy, which killed my mother and ravaged my face, apparently had evidenced itself internally with Etienne. At the age of twelve, and after numerous bouts of physical complaints, he fell into a swift decline, and died. When Henri came to me with the news, I already knew. I was the small ghost that haunted the LeMauvoisin estate, and my eyes and ears caught much. However, Henri reminded me of something, that in truth, had not occurred to me. With Etienne gone, I was now the Vicomte LeMauvoisin. I don't know what kind of reaction Henri expected, but I was not impressed. I did not then, and do not now, have any respect for the titles and trappings of the aristocracy, although I grudgingly admit that at times they come in handy.

So, Etienne was dead. As with my mother's passing, I felt no grief. Etienne and I had formed no attachment to one another, and in fact, I disliked him immensely. He had been a vapid and arrogant young fellow, who had treated me with contempt on the few occasions we'd spent time together. What's more, my life would be no better or no worse with him gone, or so I thought then. I was soon to be proven wrong.

It was exactly one week later that Henri came to me with a summons from my father. I shrunk back in horror at the news. Nothing good had ever come from a visit to my father, and I was certain that this time would be no different. And so, I greeted Henri's message with a string of expletives that I'd learned from eavesdropping on Yves, our stable hand. Henri merely chuckled, and complemented me on my latest skill. He then grew serious, and warned me that there was absolutely no choice as to whether I should obey my father's summons or not. I was to go, even if Henri had to drag me there. He then handed me a large parcel, and bid me to open it. I did as he asked, with no comment. Inside the parcel were clothing and shoes of a much finer quality than I'd ever had in my possession before. Henri explained that the outfit had been one of Etienne's vast wardrobe. I was to wear it when I paid my father my visit, as nothing I owned fit properly, or looked even remotely presentable. Resigned to the situation, I agreed reluctantly. I quickly washed, and changed into my new finery, which incidentally, was too large for me. Henri eyed me critically, and sighed. It would have to do, he told me, and bid me to follow him.

I cannot begin to describe the revulsion I felt when I entered the drawing room, and saw my father sitting there. I feared and loathed that man with every fiber of my being. I hated him so much, that I was able to draw some comfort and satisfaction by observing how he had changed since I'd last been in his presence. For, his illness, which had killed my siblings and my mother, was finally beginning to take its toll on him. The disease, in addition to his great vicissitudes had begun to show on his outer self the swine he truly was. He'd grown greatly in girth, and his bloated face had become jaundiced. From that doughy visage peered two small piggish eyes, which reflected my abhorrence of him, and shot back contempt for me. He did not greet me, nor make any polite small talk. He merely glared at me and demanded that I remove my mask.

I said not a word, nor made any move. There was nothing in the world that would have made me take the mask from my face. I would not, no, I could not comply. My father, mistaking my failure to obey for dull-wittedness, swore, arose and advanced toward me. I began backing away from him, preparing to run for my life. He must have known what my intentions were, for he shouted for assistance, and soon I was grappling with Yves, and his brother Rene, both much larger and stronger than I. It took them awhile to get me under control, and I am happy to say that the two of them did not come away unscathed. Inevitably, though, they were able to immobilize me, and my father approached, and tore off my mask. I heard the sharp intake of breath from the brothers, and felt Rene's hands tremble as he held me still. I did not want to see the expression on their faces, and so kept my eyes closed, tears of humiliation streaming from under my lids.

My father spat in disgust. "Pah!", I recall him saying, "It is worse than I remembered"! He declaimed loudly to everyone, and to no one in particular that he would be Damned if he would allow such a monstrosity to inherit his title. He declared me unfit to be a LeMauvoisin, and demanded that I be taken from his sight. No time was wasted in fulfilling his wishes, as Yves and Rene wished to be as far away from me as possible. They needn't have dragged me away as they did, however, I would have been more than happy to leave of my own volition.

Henri had waited outside of the drawing room door, and had heard all of what had transpired. He soon came to my room to offer comfort. I rebuffed him, refusing to listen to his kind words. While none of what had just occurred was Henri's doing, he still had been a part of it. I couldn't even look at him, but lie on my cot, face to the wall, until he left. It grieved me to treat him so poorly. I knew that if my father ordered, then Henri, honest and trustworthy, was obliged to obey. At that time, however, I needed someone to vent my pain on, and Henri was the only one I had. Bless him; he understood, and never held it against me.

It was three days before Henri came to me again. Once more he had unwelcome news. My father was anxious to see me, and I must go to him immediately. I could tell that my cousin dreaded to tell me this, knowing just as I did that only unpleasantness could come of such a summons. I could see the worry in his eyes, and assured him that it was quite all right, that everything would be fine. Of course I was lying, and Henri knew it, but it helped us both make a better face of things.

This time I did not bother to dress in my dead brother's finery to meet my father. I'd decided that if I was going to be a grotesque, it would at least be on my terms. As I entered the room, I was surprised to see him seated at a small table, set with a tea service. I was even further surprised to note that there were two places set. One for him, and one for…I looked around the room to see who else was there. My father laughed, motioned me over to the table, and invited me to sit down. I did so quite cautiously, and eyed him with the greatest of suspicion. He caught that look, and sighed loudly. He poured tea into my cup, and then into his own, paused, took a breath, and began to speak. While I cannot remember his exact words, this is in essence what he told me:

He had of late, become more aware of his own mortality. With the death of Etienne, the matter of an heir had taken on utmost importance. As I was now his only son, I was Vicomte, and someday would inherit the title of Comte. He noted the confusion on my face, and explained that his actions of the other day were due to his grief over losing Etienne, whom he'd loved greatly. My father claimed that he'd had time to reconsider his words, and to see how unfair he'd been. He asked me if I could forgive him, and start fresh with him.

There was no forgiveness in my heart for my father, nor did I wish to have any more to do with him than necessary. It was apparent, however, that it would go ill with me to say this, and so I pasted a smile on my face and nodded in affirmation. In my mind, I said a prayer that this audience would soon be over.

My prayer went unanswered, or perhaps it was answered, but not how I'd wished. My father gave me a delighted grin, and said happily that we might as well start immediately. In Rouen, he said, there was a carnival, and every boy loved a carnival, no? I refrained from observing that I'd never been to one, and so couldn't say. Instead, I just stared at him blankly, dreading what might come next.

What came next was a trip to the carnival. I didn't want to go. If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I would have disappeared into one of my hiding places. It was not to be, however. Yves and Rene appeared, as if they'd been standing outside the door waiting, and I knew I had no choice. I was going to the carnival with my father, like it or not.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I still don't own any aspect of the Phantom of the Opera, or any of its characters. Ask anyone._

In all actuality, I found myself enjoying the carnival more than I'd anticipated. It was a small, squalid affair, this carnival was, but I didn't know that. I'd never even been away from the estate before. To me it was a grand and glittering thing. I saw tumblers and contortionists, I had my fortune read, and ate BonBons for the first time in my life. How pitiful to have been deprived of such a wonderful confection! It is fortunate that BonBons are not easily acquired here in the underground. If they were, I fear I'd be both fat and toothless, for they are still one of my greatest weaknesses.

No one seemed to pay much attention to the poorly clad boy with a mask over his face. Perhaps they just assumed that I was one of the carnival troupe. I certainly did not resemble a young Vicomte.

I was leaning against a wall, enjoying my box of sweets, when a small furry hand blurred by the corner of my eye, and snatched a bonbon from me. Startled I quickly spun around and glanced upward. There, on the top of the wall crouched a monkey, greedily devouring his stolen treat. I had not much opportunity to laugh in my lifetime, but I laughed then. Enchanted by the tiny rogue, I began to coax him down from his perch with another sweet. The monkey did not need a great deal of coaxing, and soon he was on my shoulder, stuffing his little mouth full. That is what my father saw, when he finally caught up with me. He chuckled quietly, and said that if I liked the monkey, he would buy it for me. I looked at him incredulously. I _knew_ the man despised me. I could not think of why after all of this time, he'd suddenly become so kindly to me. But, as the wind was blowing in my favor presently, I decided to take advantage of it. I forced a smile to my lips, and nodded. Yes. I wanted the monkey.

My father walked a distance away to where two men were standing. He engaged in conversation with them, and although I could not hear what they were saying, I saw that they kept glancing my way. There seemed to be some disagreement for a while between the larger of the two and my father. However, when a large, fat purse joined the argument, the man smiled, and some sort of accord seemed to have been reached. They talked quite a bit longer, and finally my father broke away and returned to me.

The monkey's name was Rollo, he explained, and he was now mine. Rollo's old owner was quite fond of him, my father said, and wanted to make sure the little fellow would be taken care of. We were to meet him over by the side show, where he would teach me some things about Rollo, and say goodbye to him. I looked up at my new pet, and smiled. I thanked my father. What an idiot I was.

The sideshow was a tawdry collection of tattered tents. There was little activity , and the only people I saw were obviously working there. As we made our way deeper into the little encampment, I heard a voice calling to us. I looked around and spied the monkey's owner peering at us from an open tent door. He grinned and beckoned us to come inside. My father pointed out to me that it was my monkey now, and bid me to go inside by myself. He said he'd be waiting outside.

I have learned over the years to trust my intuition, and it has saved my life on numerous occasions. At the time, however, I was only ten years of age, and not accustomed to hearing that inner voice. Everything suddenly felt wrong.. I shouldn't be there, and I shouldn't be going into that tent, I knew. An indescribable feeling of dread came over me, but I shrugged it off. After all, it was broad daylight. What could happen?

And so, I walked into the tent. As I stood letting my eyes adjust to the gloom, I heard a voice behind me. "Bon Jour, little Vicomte!" it said. I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, and everything sparkled and then went black.

I awakened some time later with the most agonizing pain in my head. I tried to move but found I was bound hand and foot. There was a filthy rag tied around my mouth, and worst of all, my mask was gone. I could hear voices near me, although the ringing in my head was so loud that I could not make out what they were saying at first. Gradually my head cleared, and I was able to follow the conversation. My captor, who I gathered was called Gaspard, seemed more than a little drunk, and quite pleased with himself. He'd made a fortune that day, he bragged. He'd been paid handsomely to take away garbage, and now he would turn that garbage into treasure! He now had a brand new attraction for his show, he said, one that was sure to pack in the crowds. Another, more worried voice asked if he'd considered what would happen if the law was brought into the matter. Gaspar laughed uproariously. That was the beauty of it all, he chortled. The old man promised that the law would be kept out of it completely, as long as it was certain that he'd never have to look at the little monstrosity again!

It was then I realized who they were talking about, and who was responsible for my present situation. Hot tears of anger and shame poured down my face. That bastard! That pig! I cried myself dry in the darkness, and they were the last tears I shed for over twenty years. My childhood ended that night.

**Hey...I just want to thank people for their kind words and encouragement. Reviews are always welcome. I don't get bent out of shape about constructive criticism, either. (Of course, compliments are never turned down! ;D)**


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, or any of its characters. However, if any of the people who DO own it, grow tired of ownership, I take donations._

The search party came by the next morning. I could hear them outside talking to Gaspard. One of the voices, which I recognized as Yves, was explaining that the young Vicomte LeMauvoisin had disappeared from this carnival the day before, and that the Comte was out of his mind with worry. They had, he stated, found the boy's mask on the bank of a nearby river, and feared the worst. The Comte has told them that the boy had last been seen in the area of the side show, playing with a monkey. Did Gaspard have any information that might aid in their search? Of course, Gaspard insisted that he'd never seen me, and obligingly suggested that they question the other people in the area. I heard the party moving off, although Yves' voice remained close by. I heard the faint clink of coins, and Yves saying that the money was to insure that Gaspard and the others continued "not to have seen me". Gaspard assured him that all would remain discreet, and then bid Yves a most obsequious adieu.

It was done, then. My father had gotten rid of me neatly and quite effectively. The mask in itself would be proof enough that I'd drowned. When had anyone known me to willingly go anywhere without my mask? What would they call it, a tragic accident, or a suicide? I ground my teeth in rage. My father had preferred to let his line die out than to allow me to continue it. This whole charade had been solely because of that, and it had been so easy! I had been so stupid, so blind and trusting. I vowed that I would never allow anyone to gull me in such a manner again.

That night, the sounds from outside of the tent changed. There was great activity, but not the familiar sounds of barkers luring the crowd into the shows. There was much banging, crashing and yelling, and it went on for a very long time. When quiet finally descended, Gaspard entered the tent. He unbound my feet, and dragged me upright. "Come, little Vicomte, we are leaving Rouen", he leered, and I was pushed, half staggering outside, and into a waiting wagon. I slumped to the floor, and the door slammed behind me. I could hear a bolt sliding in place, and Gaspard yelling at someone to get going. The wagon gave a lurch, and began to move. We were leaving Rouen, and everything I'd ever known, behind. I'd dreamed of someday being free of my wretched childhood home, but not this way. Not this way.

I don't know how long we traveled, but it seemed an eternity. We made an occasional stop, and I was fed, and allowed to attend to rather pressing bodily matters. The members of the little troupe stared when Gaspard would take me from the wagon, but no one said a word to me. They merely gestured toward my face and talked amongst themselves.

We finally reached our destination, but I was kept in the wagon as they set up. I wondered fearfully what was going to happen to me. I knew that there was no reason to keep me locked up forever. What would be the purpose? My conclusion was that now that we were away from Rouen, they would kill me. As miserable as most of my life had been up to that point, I did not want to die. Such an irony!. What transpired in the next few hours made me wish that my first supposition had been correct.

The door opened, and Gaspard appeared. He dragged me outside and removed the gag, and the rope which bound my wrists. We were standing in front of a large tent, and when he shoved me through the door, I saw there was a cage inside. Gaspard produced a sack, pulled it over my head, and ordered me into the cage. I panicked. I couldn't see a thing, and was sure that I was about to be executed. As I stood there frozen, Gaspard lost patience. I was herded into the cage with a series of sharp blows and vicious kicks. I heard the cage door clang shut behind me, and Garpard's voice telling me not to remove the sack until he told me to.

I felt a warm trickle of moisture from my nose, and realized it was bleeding. In moving the sack around to attend to the problem, I realized that there were two eyehole cut into it. I adjusted the sack a bit, and I could see again. There was not much to see. I was sitting on a pile of straw, in a cage, in the center of a filthy tent. I had no idea why I was in the cage. At the moment it didn't even matter. It was just another occurrence in my life, which was rapidly becoming more and more bizarre. It was then that I heard a scuffling on the ground outside of the cage. I cringed, fearing it was Gaspard again. Someone began tugging at the sack, and I grabbed for it, loathing the thought of having my face exposed again. I did not grab the sack. Instead I caught hold of a small furry arm. It was Rollo! He seemed to recognize me, and what's more, seemed pleased to see me. I know I was happy to see him. Rollo seemed intent on playing "throw straw at Erick", and I was content to let him do so. After the solitude I had endured since my abduction, I was grateful for any contact from another creature. Outside the tent, I heard them getting ready for the first show. The barkers began working the gathering crowd, and I noticed that Gaspard was touting a new attraction. "Come", I heard him call out, "Come and see the Devil's Child". It was just beginning to dawn on me who the Devil's child might be, when Rollo gave a shriek and leapt out of the cage. At the same time, Gaspard entered, leading a group of carnival goers.. They gathered around the cage, gawking at me, and murmuring to one another. Once everyone was inside the tent, Gaspard signaled to me to remove the sack. The fool! I had no intention of removing the one thing that hid me from those people. I just stood there, staring at the ground. Gaspard spoke to me, and demanded that I remove the sack. I continued to ignore him. The crowd became restless, and one or two of them began to complain. Gaspard unlocked the cage door, strode inside, and forcibly pulled the sack from my head. Some of the crowd screamed in horror, and even worse some laughed at me. Infuriated at my disobedience, Gaspard proceeded to beat me in front of everyone. For some reason, this only increased the general mirth, and soon everyone was laughing. Gaspard finally let me go, and I pulled the sack back over my head and crumpled to the floor. I could hear coins hitting the ground as the people left the tent. Finally alone, aching and bleeding, I found myself wondering how much harder they would have laughed, if Gaspard had killed me.

That night was the beginning of countless nights in countless and nameless towns. The routine barely changed. I would never willingly uncover my face. I would never make that concession. It was the one thing in my existence I could control. Of course the sack would come off, but I would not be the one to do it. Night after night, Gaspard was forced to unmask the Devil's Child. Night after night, Gaspard beat me for it, as well. I received black eyes, broken ribs, and a fine knot work of scars across my back. The only reason I am still alive is that people paid well to see me. Gaspard was not a man to sacrifice profit for the mere pleasure of putting an end to me.

I became a thing. I kept no thoughts in my head, nor emotions in my heart. I woke up, ate, worked and slept. There was no more meaning to life than that. Early in my captivity, I'd dreamed of escape. That dream had faded. What was the point? Where could I go where I would not be treated as I was now? I did not want to live, I did not want to die. I did not even exist, therefore living or dying was irrelevant. There was a precipice on which I teetered, one that would have granted me true oblivion of mind and soul had I stepped over the edge. Each day, I inched closer, its attraction growing ever stronger. With only a small effort, I could have plunged into the comfort and freedom of madness. That I did not, was due in part to the one small attachment I had left to me…My small companion Rollo. During the idle time between shows, the little creature would slip between the bars of my cage, and sit before me, staring like a wise old man. What occurred after that, depended entirely on Rollo's mood. Sometimes he would creep into my lap, wrap his arms around my neck, and cling, like a child. At other times, he would explode suddenly into a frenzy of wild and quite entertaining acrobatics, and we would play. Of course, he also threw straw at me, pummeled me mercilessly and stole my food. He was Rollo, however, and my friend, and so I did not mind. We knew each other quite well, and I like to think that he was fond of me. He did not feel that way about Gaspard, however. He seemed to be terrified of the man. For when Gaspard would appear, our private audience would end . Rollo would bound from the cage and disappear, shrieking and chattering all the while.

My other tenuous bond to sanity was music. I played it over and over again in my head. Inside my private world, I composed strange and wonderful melodies. It was music I'd never encountered before. It was dark, passionate and compelling, and I knew it was uniquely mine. It carried me through my days, soothed the long nights, and mercifully muted the laughter and screams of my audience during the shows. Without the music, I surely would have stepped into the abyss, and allowed death of mind to engulf me.

My indifference to Gaspard's presence seemed to infuriate him. His beatings grew more vicious, and more frequent. I was beaten for my refusal to unmask. I was beaten if I didn't eat. I was beaten if I ate too much. If I did not take in enough money, and for Gaspard, there was never enough, I was kicked and punched to near unconsciousness. My friendship with his monkey seemed to enrage him, and I was beaten for that as well. He could not get inside my head where the music was, however, and so I was safe from him. I thought that there was no way that he could truly touch me, but I was wrong.

One night, he entered the tent while Rollo and I were engaged in a silent game of "Climb on Erik's head". As usual, Rollo shrieked in alarm and fled the cage. This time, he was not fast enough. Gaspard quickly grabbed him, looked me straight in the eye, and simply snapped the little fellow's neck. The screeching and struggling ceased, and the small form went limp. I for once was thrust out of my self-isolation, and I rushed forward, screaming curses at the man. I shook the bars, demanding to be let out, threatening to kill him. Gaspard merely laughed at me. He tossed Rollo's little body aside, and left the tent. I did not cry. I swallowed the pain, and retreated even further into the blank, emotionless refuge of my being. I was truly alone, now. Now there was just me and the music. There _was_ a little part of my mind that rebelled against the walls I was building all around me, and that part coldly considered the cruelty I'd just witnessed. Someday, it would be Gaspard's turn.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or any of its character. I also do not own the Empire State Building, The Tower of London, or the Great Wall of China. _

Gaspard's turn would not come for a long time. The carnival continued its progress, I continued on as the Devil's Child, and Gaspard continued his unremitting campaign of cruelty. I barely noticed any longer. It meant nothing to me. I merely allowed my music to well up and swallow any feelings of anger or pain I might have had. My music was growing more beautiful and more powerful with each passing day. It began to be who I was; my very essence.

Gaspard eventually replaced poor Rollo with another monkey. This one seemed to get on with him much better than my old friend had. Coco was a nasty, vicious little beast, who pinched and bit with no provocation. Perhaps sensing his master's feelings, he took especial delight in bedeviling me. Gaspard found this to be quite amusing, and would bring Coco with him between shows, just to watch him torment me. It was on one of these visits to my cage, that Gaspard found the toy monkey. It was a broken remnant of a larger toy, dropped by some careless child that day. Anyone else would have kicked it aside and continued on his way, but not Gaspard. Gaspard picked the filthy thing up, and brought it with him. He presented it to me, that night. He told me that he'd found a little pet that was perfect for me. It was, he said, as damaged and worthless as I was. He grinned conspiratorially and whispered that he'd "removed" little Rollo, so I could have this new friend. He tossed the thing on the ground before me, and left, laughing uproariously at his joke. On his shoulder, the damnable Coco hooted and chattered as if he knew what had just transpired.

After they'd gone, I picked up the toy monkey. It was apparent that it once belonged to some sort of mechanical device. It had a small cymbal attached to each hand, and its arms could be moved to make the cymbals clash against one another. It had seen hard use, and was in a most deplorable condition. It mattered not; it was mine. Gaspard, though he did not know it, had sealed his fate that night. In taunting me with the broken and filthy toy, he had hardened my resolve. The monkey became a symbol to me, a standard which I bore, day in and day out.My cocoon of insensibility began to slowly open. I knew there would come a day that Gaspard would pay dearly for his crimes against me. I did not know how, or when, but I knew without a doubt that someday it would happen. And so, I named the monkey Rollo for my dear, lost friend, and I kept it close to me always. At night I would lie on the hard wooden floor of the wagon, coldly and unemotionally making plans. My future seemed fraught with darkness, but at least now I had one.

My daily routine changed slightly in the ensuing months. I became more aware of my surroundings. I examined my cage thoroughly, and noted that it was a reasonably flimsy affair. It was loosely bolted together, to enable quick break-down and reassembly. Rollo, I found, was held together with thin sturdy metal wires. I removed one from his leg, and with it learned to pick the lock that held the cage door closed. At this point, I could have fled at any time, but wisely refrained. The very thought of my twelve-year old self wandering around the countryside, half naked and with a sack over my head was ludicrous. Besides, escape at that point was not my intention. I had decided to wait.

In further perusal of the cage, I realized that the ropes that tied its parts together for transporting were left hanging on the bars when not in use. The bars themselves were sturdy, and I found that they were quite useful for exercising on during the quiet times when no one was there. Two years of confinement had weakened me greatly,but I was young, and youthis resilient. Ibegan hoisting myself around the bars, trying to emulate the feats which I remembered seeing Rollo perform. Soon I was supple and agile enough to move along the cage bars like an acrobat. I built up my strength in other ways. There were bales of straw in the corners of the cage which I began to lift. I remembered certain exercises that I'd read about in books in my father's library. I implemented them with excellent results. The ropes I grasped tightly and pulled with all my strength. My hands and arms became like iron. And so, while I continued my public existence as a blank, mindless thing, in secret I was rebuilding myself. I now had one goal which could bring me out of the void I'd created for myself, and Gaspard figured greatly in it.

Eventually, I knew that I was ready. All I needed now was an opportunity to use my new skills and strength. The timing had to be perfect, I knew. After I had finally dealt with Gaspard, my intent was to flee. Therefore, the carnival had to be in a large, well populated city, where someone like myself could easily disappear. I had not forgotten the self-taught lessons of my early years, and I knew I could do it. All I needed was a chance. That chance came much more swiftly than I'd imagined.

We had completed our last performance, and the carnival was being broken down. Everyone seemed more animated than usual, and laughter and fragments of song drifted through the night. There was an air of excitement within the troupe that I'd never sensed before. I sat in my cage, waiting for Gaspard to release me, and idly listening to the activities outside of the tent. Gaspard was later in coming, that night, and he was in a more jovial mood than I'd ever seen him. He actually draped his arm over my shoulder as he walked me from the tent. I was revolted by the contact, but remained silent as he leaned closer to talk to me. He was going to make a fortune, he told me. We were going to a place where people would surely dig deep in their purses to see my beastly face. We were going to Paris!

_Paris_! I couldn't believe my ears. I had read about Paris, and it was exactly the kind of place I required. It teeming with people of all sorts, and was a huge maze of buildings and alleyways. I could disappear there, and no one would ever find me. I quickly and carefully masked my thoughts. It would complicate things if Gaspard were to suspect that I felt the least little excitement about our next stop. It would mean that his attentions would focus even more intensely on me, as he endeavored to make my stay in Paris as miserable as possible. I needed him to treat me as he normally did. I needed him to see me as merely a thing. I had nothing to worry about. As usual, Gaspard displayed the sensibilities of a mushroom. He continued to rhapsodize about the money I was about to make him, and never stopped talking until we reached my wagon. I silently entered, and heard the bolt slide closed. I sat in the dark, contemplating my good fortune. Paris! We were going to Paris, and I was ready. It was time.

All I needed was a chance.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I don't own any aspect of the Phantom of the Opera, or any of its characters. All I own is the characters I've created, and the extra story I've invented to fill in the holes._

Of course, from my vantage point, Paris was not any different from the scores of other cities and towns we'd visited. I was shuttled back and forth between the wagon and the cage, and saw nothing else. The crowds were larger, and for the most part better dressed than most we saw. Aside from that, I could have been anywhere.

Our opening night was a slow one. The first shows saw few visitors, and those that came did not seem as impressed as Gaspard had hoped. Perhaps the Parisians were a bit more sophisticated in their tastes; we made little money. The last show of the evening promised to be no better. It was a larger crowd, but it was comprised of a handful of young girls in ballet garb, a few bored looking couples and an elderly gentleman who looked for all the world like a goat. I ignored them. Instead, I sat there focusing my attention on the little toy monkey, waiting, and gathering my resolve around me. From outside of the cage, Gaspard commanded that I remove my hood. He knew that I would not, and he knew that he'd have to enter the cage and do it himself. He'd found, however that crowds were entertained by this, and especially seemed to enjoy the beatings he gave me afterwards. For him, it was now just part of the routine.

This night, however, Gaspard was in a foul mood. The money had not been good, and this crowd did not promise to make the situation any better for him. He entered the cage, kicked Rollo from my hand and crushed it under his foot. The sack was yanked from my head, and the beating that followed was savage, even by Gaspard's standards. The crowd was screamed with laughter, save for one of the ballet students. She peered through the bars at me, with tears in her eyes, and something else that I was hard pressed to recognize. I know now it was compassion. Gaspard finally tossed me to the ground and left the cage. It was then that something welled up from deep inside me, something black and violent and murderous. Somewhere in my mind, doors that I'd carefully locked burst open. It was time. The time was now. I could do it, and what's more, I was going to enjoy it.

The crowd drifted away, most leaving little in the way of money. Among the last to leave was old Goat-Face, and the girl. The girl glanced sadly over her shoulder at me before she disappeared through the door, but I would not meet her eyes. The old man, still chuckling, tossed a gold coin at Gaspard's feet. He too left, and we were alone. I silently turned my head toward Gaspard, watching his every move, waiting. Gaspard had picked up the coins, and was counting them. When he saw the glint of gold, I thought his eyes would fall out of his head. He grinned, and leaned his back against the cage, turning the coin over and over again in his hand.

Now was the time. Gaspard was completely off his guard, and in perfect position. I shot forward, and slid a rope around his neck. Before he even knew what had happened, I'd wedged my feet against the bars and pulled against the rope with all of my strength and weight. Gaspard was a big man, and he struggled violently. But I had spent nights thinking about how best to do this, and I knew he didn't have a chance. In but a few moments, Gaspard was dead. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my little wire, and in a moment the lock was open. I was free. It was then that miserable little monkey Coco decided to pay his nightly visit to me.

The horrid little thing observed the tableau before him, and began shrieking and screeching frantically. Of course, this brought people, who correctly assessing the scene, ran calling for a Gendarme. I had lost the time that I'd needed to put distance between myself and the carnival. I scooped up Rollo, and noticed that the girl had returned. She'd seen the whole thing, I was sure, but rather than running away, or calling for help, she took my hand and bid me follow her. I really had no choice. I could hear shouts and footsteps coming closer to the tent, and knew that I could stay there no longer. She knew, or at least I hoped she did, the streets of Paris better than I . So, once more, although I'd promised myself I never would, I placed my trust in another human being. And this time, my trust was well founded.

The girl and I left the tent just ahead of the Gendarmes, and fled into the night. We had eluded them for the moment, but we both knew that soon they would find us. The girl calmly placed her hand on my arm. She looked frightened, but her voice sounded strong and sure. "Come, hurry" , she said to me, "I will take you to my home. You will be safe there". Her home, I was soon to discover was the Opera Populaire. And, although I did not know it then, it would be my home, too, for the next twenty-two years of my life.

And so she brought me home, and hid me in the cellars of the opera house. It would not have been a hospitable place for most people, but for me the darkness was a refuge. There was a maze of rooms and corridors in the cellars, and I was intrigued. I vowed to explore every one of them, and I did. When Antoinette was busy at practice during the day, I delved ever deeper into the underside of the opera house. I soon discovered that where the cellars ended, a vast under ground labyrinth of caverns and tunnels began. Some of it was manmade and some natural. It ran beneath the opera house, and spread out in all directions. I discovered an underground lake which had formed from the runoff of Parisian sewers and storm drains, and in part from ground water that ran beneath the city. It was another world, down there, and I spent hours on end exploring and mapping out my discoveries.

At first Antoinette visited me frequently. She brought me food and found clothing in the opera's large wardrobe to fit me. She helped me fashion a small paper mache mask to replace the sack I'd worn for so long. As time went on, however, I became more self-reliant, and required little from her, save for the few things that I could not pilfer from the Opera House's vast inventory. I began to avoid Antoinette when I could. I suppose it was unfair for me to do so, for she had come to my aid, and offered me safe haven and succor. A strangeness had grown up between us, one that made us treat one another with a stiff and uncomfortable formality. I knew she waited for details of the scene she had witnessed in the carnival tent, and to learn more of who I was. I knew I owed her some sort of a history, but could not bring myself to discuss the details of my miserable life. It was a pathetic, humiliating story, and filled me with a black passionate rage whenever it entered my consciousness. All I wanted to do was forget the years past, and all of the horrors I'd experienced since birth. And so I remained mute. Antoinette was as admirably discreet then as she is now, and she did not press me on the subject. To her, I remained merely Erik, from Rouen. I know it hurt her to be shut out in that way, and so the distance grew between us. Despite that, she has remained a staunch and loyal ally; perhaps much better than I deserve, considering how I treated her.

In my explorations of the world under the Opera House, I'd discovered a small island. It was situated in a cavern, isolated and forgotten. I could tell that it had not seen another human for years, and perhaps centuries. Paris is an ancient place, with layers of other times and other cities buried beneath it.

Up to that point I'd been sleeping in the cellars of the Opera House., but upon discovering the island, I decided to make a permanent home there. It was perfect for one such as myself. Hidden, and forgotten, it would be my refuge; a place where I could at last be safe from the ridicule and cruelties of the human race. In the following weeks, I busied myself in preparing the island as my home. Initially it was a rather Spartan affair, furnished only with enough items to satisfy my basic needs. The Opera House supplied everything I required, and soon I was ready to descend into the gloom and isolation in which I still exist. I said not a word to Antoinette about my intention. I merely disappeared.

Alone in solitude of my new home, I doused my torch and lit a candle there for the very first time. It was done. I, the outcast, had resigned from the human race.

_**Hi, everyone who is still reading this! Thank you so much for your reviews and encouragement. I really, really appreciate it.**_


	9. Chapter 9

I grew from a child into manhood in the dark and twisting tunnels that ran beneath Paris. I grew there in silence and solitude, with no voice to guide me but my own. I did not miss the company of man; the company of man had rarely caused me anything but humiliation and pain. Yet, there were occasions when the unbroken silence would suddenly become insufferable. At those times I would make my way to the opera house, and hidden high above the stage, I would watch the activity below me. It was there amidst the catwalks and ropes that I first heard opera.

It was aria from _Giulio Cesare, _performed by a fairly competent soprano. I stood spell-bound as it was performed, lost in the magic of the sound. Amazing! The music enfolded me, filled me and insinuated itself into my very being. Tendrils of it curled gently into the tips of my fingers, causing a most compelling sensation. I longed to place them on the keyboard of an organ, and reproduce the music, to hear the singing in my head as I played. I stayed there until the end of the rehearsal, each song burning itself into my memory. When I returned to my home, and finally lie down to sleep, I replayed the entire opera in my head. Note for note, word for word, it came back to me, save for the voice of the soprano. My memory played a peculiar trick, for the voice I heard was not hers, but another's. It was a voice of sweet and aching purity, one that I sensed could easily soar beyond the limitations set by the piece it was singing. Its beauty caused my throat to tighten and my heart to pound fiercely in my chest. If I should ever write an opera, I vowed, I would have a voice like that to breathe life into it.

I began to spend more time in the opera house, listening to the music, observing the performers, and vicariously experiencing their day-to-day lives. I knew each one of them intimately. A few amused and intrigued me, most only underscored my feelings of contempt for humanity. I watched Antoinette transform from an awkward young ballet rat into an accomplished ballerina. She was a poised and self-possessed young woman, and I could tell that there was a growing respect for her within the troupe. Antoinette never glimpsed me during my secret audiences, but I believe that somehow she sensed my presence. She never entered the staged during rehearsal without looking upward as if searching for something or someone. When eventually she married her young soldier, Luis Giry, I bitterly rued our long lost opportunity for a true friendship. If I could have trusted anyone with my secrets, it would have been Antoinette. But, the past belonged in the past, however regrettable it might be. Madame Giry had other concerns now than the boy who lived in the cellars of the opera house.

In my fifteenth year, I made a most fortuitous discovery. I was still in the process furnishing my home to my taste, relying heavily on the store rooms which honeycombed the opera house's cellars. It was in one of these places that I found the organ. It was a venerable instrument which had outlived its usefulness to the opera, and had been removed to this room and forgotten. It was in a sad state of repair, virtually unplayable. It did not matter to me. As far as I was concerned, I might as well have discovered the Holy Grail. I carefully began to dismantle my new treasure, and after much time, and not a little labor, removed it to my home beneath the opera house.

In my explorations of my underground world, I'd discovered that many of the older buildings in Paris had hidden escape routes that connected their basements to the sewers and catacombs which ran beneath them. These exits belonged to older and more dangerous times, and had been largely forgotten by the present day inhabitants. Exits, of course, are also entrances, and I readily made use of many of them. One of my most frequented egresses was the small wooden door that opened into a basement of the City Library. Everything I needed to know resided in that building, and many books soon found a new home with me. After the rescue of the organ, I began an avid search for everything pertaining to organ repair. I speedily learned what I required, and began a true labor of love. I hunted for materials and parts, and pilfered tools. With them, I painstaking restored the fine old instrument to what it once had been. I still can remember the ecstasy I felt as the first chords of it thundered through the cavern that harbored my home. At long last, I had music again.

My skills had grown rusty from disuse, and at first I despaired of ever doing justice to the glorious instrument I had recently resurrected. The words of Henri came back to me, however, and I began the long, sometimes painful process of regaining what I'd lost. Eventually I was playing with my former ease, and even better. My music had changed since last I played. It was darker, reflecting the turns my life had taken. It spoke of pain, of solitude, and of a longing, a yearning for something that I, even as I played it, could not identify. It felt wonderful. There was a terrible beauty to the music I made. I knew there was no other music like it.

And so, I began setting what I heard in my head to paper. This time, melodies and lyrics flowed from my pen as well. I was creating a new world with music. The people in this world could only do as _I _bid them. They only felt what I decided they should feel, and their words were _my _words. Their lives, deaths, their very destinies were mine to control. It was, and still is, an exhilarating experience.

The years passed for me in this manner. By the time I was twenty, I'd attained my full growth. I was tall, and the mirrors, when I cared to look, reflected back a well muscled body. My years of self reliance had served me well. I was fit and as agile as an acrobat. I had taken a fancy to elegant attire, and had collected a wealth of simple yet well-cut garb. My tastes ran to dark clothing, and most of what I owned was a severe black. I suppose the unblemished half of my face could have been called handsome, but it detested it. The treacherous mirror showed me the face of Etienne whenever I peered into it. We had resembled each other that much. I wonder if my accursed father ever even noticed.

Life in the opera house had moved on, as well. Antoinette, now a mother, had become a widow. The army granted her a small pension to compensate her for her loss, but apparently it was not enough. She accepted the position of Ballet Director at the Opera Populaire, a job that she was quite qualified for. Monsieur LeFevre, the manager, took dreadful advantage of her situation, and shamelessly underpaid her. It enraged me to see her treated so, and I vowed I would rectify the problem as soon as I was able. The opportunity was not so long in coming as I'd imagined, thanks to the ignorant fools that populated the opera house.

My little thefts from the opera house had not gone unnoticed over the years. At first, when things went missing, there was joking about "the ghost". As time went on, and it was apparent that the missing things were not just mislaid, but had actually disappeared, the jokes grew fewer. When my rather eclectic interests turned to ventriloquism and acoustics, the joking stopped altogether. Who was I to practice on but the people who lived all around me? I do have a sense of humor, and it amused me to send "other worldly" messages to the gullible souls. Monsieur LeFevre was no less gullible than his employees, and my whispered messages nearly caused him fits. For him, I added further messages: falling sandbags, missing scores, and cordial, but threatening notes left on his office desk. By the time I left him the message suggesting that Madame Giry be paid her full worth, he was more than willing to comply. At that point, he and everyone else but Antoinette was convinced that the opera house was haunted. Antoinette was never a fool, and she had knowledge that no one else had; she knew about me. She kept her peace, however, and the talk of the restless spirit continued. I must say, that when I found what power the rumor gave me, I used it to full advantage.

And so, the Opera Ghost came into being.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. _

My studies continued. I mastered the arts of magic and illusion, and began dabbling with the science of hypnosis. I'd learned the technique of teaching voice, and then taught myself. I must say that I have a rather fine voice, quite suitable for the hypnotic skills that I acquired. I entertained myself by practicing on the people of the opera house.

I was returning to my home one evening, after such a practice, when I began to hear the most ungodly shrieks and wails. I had never encountered such a sound in the tunnels, and was quite taken aback. I stealthily , and quite nervously moved toward the din. Soon, my torch's light revealed a small figure seated on the cold floor, and sobbing desperately. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was little Meg Giry, Antoinette's daughter. She had somehow found her way into the tunnels and gotten lost.

I do not, in general, like children, and I certainly did not like this one. She was a noisy little thing, who had disrupted my rather pleasant evening, and shattered the peace of my silent world. Even worse, she could not be allowed to stay there, but would have to be returned to her mother. Exasperated, I picked her up, and began the long trek back to the opera.

Black-clad and masked, I must have been a fearful sight for the child. The screams and the squalling redoubled, and she began kicking me fiercely. I had the near uncontrollable urge to dash the little creature against the stone floor, but quickly fought it off. This was Antoinette's child, after all. Instead I began singing to her. I knew no songs of childhood, and so whatever entered my head is what I sang, I sang of the night and about the comfort of darkness, and of dreaming. The child slowly quieted and fell asleep.

I carried her through the shadows of the opera house, unseen by the few who still were awake. I soon encountered Antoinette who had been searching frantically for her daughter. I could see that she was at her wit's end. What a sight I must have been, as I emerged from the shadows; a tall cloaked man, dressed in forbidding black, singing nonsense to the sleeping child he was carrying. Antoinette flew to retrieve little Meg, tears of relief streaming down her face. We walked together to her rooms, and she silently beckoned me to enter. Meg was soon tucked into her own bed, and Antoinette and I reacquainted ourselves. It was not a warm and joyful reunion. The strangeness and distance was still there. We continued to treat each other with the strained formality of the past. She _was _pleased to see me, I could tell, as I was to see her. We spoke of inconsequential things for awhile, and then I rose to leave. She bid me adieu, and then very earnestly asked me not to forget that she was my friend. Any time I needed something, anything at all, she said, she would be at my service. Poor Antoinette.

Antoinette was my only link to the outside world, and I frequently required her services. That night after I'd delivered Meg and was returning home, I realized that if the child could find her way into this maze, then other more dangerous intruders could, too. I was completely vulnerable to an armed predator. It was then that I vowed that I would learn offensive and defensive skills. There was a good possibility that my survival might depend on it. Antoinette soon contacted a well-known fencing master, who agreed to train her friend, the eccentric Monsieur Tremonte. He would only take lessons at night, she said, and being reclusive and shy, would arrive wearing his fencing mask, and would keep it on until after his departure. The Master barely raised an eyebrow at such odd stipulations, and agreed to take Monsieur Tremonte on. It was not long before I surpassed the master, and my lessons were done.

The library afforded me many books on weaponry and fighting skills. Because of my living conditions, I gravitated toward the more stealthy techniques. Fencing was truly a fine and noble skill, but was not suited to my needs. Therefore, I learned how to use a dagger and the garrote. One thin volume offered me what turned out to be my favorite weapon. It was devoted entirely to the use of the Punjab Lasso. The idea appealed to me greatly. It was quiet, deadly, and easily concealed. The materials were easy to find in the opera house, and it felt quite suitable, almost as if I'd already known the skill. I practiced alone beneath the Opera Populaire, until I was perfect in technique. I realized that it might more difficult when applied to a moving target, and so I practiced a bit on Antoinette. Needless to say, she was not amused. It did not matter. I was now confidant that I could defend myself against any intruder who might violate the solitude of my home.

The opera house was gradually coming under my control. Its inhabitants were firmly convinced that there was an Opera Ghost, and most went out of their way not to offend him. Monsieur LeFevre, was a weak-willed, spineless man, and so was a joy to work with. By the end of my twentieth year, he was paying me a monthly salary, and was beginning to take my suggestions about casting and directing his operas seriously. I could see that he would be a very well-trained manager one day.

My life settled into a comfortable routine. I studied, pursuing all manners of interests, Icomposed, and spent the remainder of my waking hours frequenting the opera house. The lights and the babble of voices loosened, somewhat, the dark knot of loneliness that was growing in my breast. The long silent hours underground had begun to wear on my soul. I felt trapped, imprisoned. In my world there was no voice to call my name, no affection, no friendship or understanding. In desperation, I watched others engaged in the activities I thirsted for, just for a small taste of what it must be like. I was deeply and bitterly alone.

When Antoinette appeared, with a new little ballet student in tow, I had no inkling that my loneliness was soon to end. She was just a little bit of a thing, with huge frightened eyes, and a mop of curly brown hair. I probably would have ignored the arrival completely, except that some one mentioned Gustav Daae. Daae! A violinist of nearly supernatural abilities, whose violin was like a voice. His original compositions were daring…wild, passionate and dark. I recognized a kindred soul in his music. He was a man who would have understood my own compositions, had he heard them.

Moving closer, I heard that this child was the orphaned daughter of the great Daae. I was saddened to hear of his death, and most curious as to whether his offspring had inherited his unique ear for music.

The conversation ended, and Antoinette led the girl to the dormitories. I decided that I'd pay the child a visit, soon, to satisfy my curiosity. If there was any kind of musical talent there, what a waste it would be to let it lie dormant. It was just like LeFevre to be so short sighted. Would there, I wondered, be any of her father in Christine?

I had always avoided the dormitories. The thought of all of those silly giggling young girls, even sleeping, made me distinctly uncomfortable. That night, however, I made my way in, and soon found Christine. She was lying in her bed, crying softly, so as not to waken the others. The pain and desolation in those muted sobs were evident. The child was desperately alone. I stood in the shadow so she could not see, and threw my voice so that it sounded in her ear. "Christine", I whispered. The sobbing ceased, and a small head peeked from under the coverlet. She said not a word, and her whole expression gave the impression that she had been waiting for me. "Do not cry, anymore, Christine", I remember whispering. She smiled tentatively and told me that if I were the Angel, then she would cry no longer. It seemed like a good idea to go along with her childish fancy, and so I agreed that I was her Angel. She then asked me to sing to her, andI began to wonder what kind of foolishness I'd gotten myself into. Hoping to draw the audience to an end, I began to sing, hoping she'd sleep. To my surprise, she listened for a little, and then began to sing with me. I was astounded. Her voice, though immature and untrained had a haunting and familiar quality. It was the voice I'd imagined singing my operas. It was that magical, pure voice that I'd heard in my dreams. When the song was done, I said goodnight to the drowsy girl. She asked if I'd ever visit her again. I answered:

"Christine, next time you must visit me. I will wait for you in the chapel tomorrow night, child" She smiled and drifted off to sleep.

I hurriedly left the dormitory, and sought out Antoinette. It was most important that I speak with her. I was about to take on a student.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: Own Phantom of the Opera, I do not. No. Own its characters, I do not. No. Own only my own characters and story, I do._

**_-I have been very rude in failing to acknowledge the people who have so kindly read and reviewed this piece._ Misty Breyer_, Erik will eventually share his thoughts on the Christine incident, don'cha worry! _JupiterPixie_, thanks forreading, and thanks for the vote of confidence...it helps me keep writing._ Nota Lone_, I believe you even read my other, silly piece. Thanks for making me feel good at the beginning. Everyone else that I haven't mentioned: I really appreciate you taking the time to review my writing. I hope you're still reading this._**

Antoinette was beside herself when I came to her with my request. Did I not understand, she fumed, the impropriety of what I was asking? A full grown man such as myself, could not engage in secret meetings with a six-year-old girl! Teacher or not, it was not done! At first I tried to reason with her. Surely, such meetings could only be beneficial to the girl. She appeared to have talent, and should have the chance to develop it. Antoinette, however was adamant. There could be no lessons under the conditions that I had demanded. I had never seen her so intractable, and it began to dawn on me that perhaps dear Antoinette had concerns about my mental stability. At that point in my life she had no reason to, but no argument I presented could allay her doubts. Her suspicions did not help my plan one bit, so as a last resort, I used my voice on the poor woman. I spoke to her softly and gently, using the techniques of hypnosis that I'd learned. Antoinette is a tough-minded woman, and I exerted my will with great difficulty. Little by little, I gained ground, and before I left her rooms, she'd agreed to bring the child to the chapel on the following evening. Antoinette is not a woman to be trifled with. She did indeed bring Christine to the chapel as she promised, but our friendship, such as it was, was broken. She receded from my life, until our only contact was the written word, and only when _I _wrote. I'd request, and she'd comply. There was never again any more to it.

Christine was too young for formal operatic training. Her voice was not ready for it. I taught her breathing techniques, and gave her scales to practice. I began teaching her the basics of Italian, and German. She still called me her Angel, and I did not correct her. She had to call me _something_, and Angel was far better than some of the names I'd been given. Christine always asked me to sing her a song before she left the chapel, and so I began singing my own compositions to her. It was a complete delight to discover that the child actually understood what my music was saying. She could hear it, and hear me within it. Who else, but two lonely souls, abandoned and unloved, could share such a rare thing? I believe we both found comfort in the music, and in the knowledge that we were not alone.

By the time Christine was ready to begin operatic training, I'd made my decision. This girl was going to be my Diva. She would perform my music, be my voice. She was extremely malleable, and I began to shape her, mold her to my will. I did not see her as an individual, but as an extension of myself. She was a vessel to carry my music to the stage. I learned from our exchanges that before he died, Gustav had promised to send an Angel of Music to her. She truly believed that her father could do that. I marveled at the unkindness of such a promise, but did not attempt to dissuade her from the belief that I was that angel. It helped make her compliant to my will. I could tell that Christine half-hoped the Angel and her father were one and the same, and I left her to wonder about it. All I needed was for her to sing.

Christine was fifteen when Signorina Giudicelli and her lapdog Signore Piangi joined the Opera Populaire. Carlotta was hired on as lead soprano, and Piangi, because he was with Carlotta. What a fine pair they made. She might have had a fine voice, had she not ruined it by screaming like a fishwife whenever she was unhappy. She was unhappy most of the time, our Carlotta was, and must be petted and flattered into good humor. She was an obnoxious, common woman, who was hired in good part, for the small salary she was willing to work for. Piangi, a fat strutting little man, possessed the florid, overblown baritone one associates with Italian Opera. I detested both of them. It was actually painful for me to hear them perform. I knew, however, that I would eventually have a far greater talent to put on the stage, so I decided for the present to let it be. I contented myself with bedeviling LaCarlotta with the Opera Ghost's pranks, whenever she became insufferable. She kept me quite busy.

Christine, meanwhile was rapidly developing into an absolute marvel. She could have performed at that point, and done quite well. I wanted better than that, however, I wanted perfection. And so we continued to work together, Christine and her very demanding Angel of Music. My demands kept her sheltered, isolated, and very much mine.

As I gained control over my Christine, so did my influence over the opera house grow. In part, it was because it was crucial to my plans for my budding Diva, but also because I loathed having the place run shoddily. LeFevre was an idiot, and could be trusted to make the wrong decisions every time. If he hadn't been so frightened of the Opera Ghost, I believe he would have been almost grateful to have been relieved of much of his responsibilities. He still paid me my salary, and I earned every franc. I selected cast, critiqued musical arrangements, and even advised him on costuming. Monsieur LeFevre became quite accustomed to my notes, and complied readily. He knew what would happen if he did not. A series of "accidents" had proven to him that it was wise to obey the Opera Ghost. I was quite satisfied with the progress of my plans. The stage was set, and when Christine was ready for her debut, all was in order for her. LeFevre would not question.

Christine's voice continued to develop and mature. By her seventeenth year, she'd acquired an emotional range that belied her age and life's experience. She could sing with the pure, virginal sweetness of youth, or effortlessly drop into a voice that evinced such rich passion and longing, that the very breath would leave me. It was, she shyly explained to me, how she heard my music. The knowledge that she knew me so well drew me closer to her, I think. I know that during that time , I began to see her differently. She was no longer a child, but had become a woman. She had a fragile and exquisite beauty, and a lovely, gentle way about her that made me ache with emotion. Incredibly, without even being aware of the transition, I'd fallen in love with my student. The outcast, the monster was in love! What's more, I sensed that my feelings were not altogether unreciprocated. There was a new tension between us, unspoken, which fairly quivered with need. I had never felt this way before, had never imagined that such a thing could be possible. The thought of her filled my waking hours, and invaded my dreams. I composed my music now solely for her. I was obsessed. I vowed that as soon as my Diva made her debut, I would make her entirely mine. Now, the knowledge that I possessed her mind was not enough. I wanted her, mind, body and spirit. I could not accept anything less. I made my plans accordingly.

With all of this in mind, I intensified her training. I made her practice each night until we were both exhausted, and she in tears. I forbid her to leave the opera house. She was to continue her ballet, of course, and practice with me. She was to go nowhere else. I did not want this pure, sweet talent to be tainted by outside influences. She obeyed me as always. I held her completely under my sway, and she never even questioned my commands.

One night, after her lesson, I gave Christine my news. She was ready. She let out a delighted gasp, and thanked me, tears streaming down her face. Oh, Christine! How I longed to step into the room and gather her in my arms! To share her joy then was my heart's wish, but I knew I could not. I had trapped myself in half-lies and subterfuge. She believed me to be an Angel. How was I to tell her after all of these years, that I was but a man, and a flawed, damaged one, at that? Clearly I must restrain myself, and wait until the time was right.

That time never came. As I busied myself in arranging Christine's debut on the opera's stage, events were occurring that would put an end to my fool's fantasy. In a very short while, my plans, my life would begin to unravel, and I would be powerless to prevent it.


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera, or any of it's characters. Like, as if anyone was actually wondering if I did, or something_.

I was barely aware of the world outside of the Opera Populaire. I paid little attention to the politics and pretensions of the general populace. The opera _was _my world. What went on outside of its doors did not have any impact on my life, or so I thought. Had I been the least bit interested, or wise, I could have picked up any of the newspapers left about the building, and learned that the opera house had been sold. As it was, when the two scrap dealers, Andre and Firman came to claim their new prize, I was caught completely off guard. I sat secluded in my private box above the stage, observing the clamor of introductions below me. I rapidly assessed my predicament. The two men appeared to be out of their league. Hopefully, they would remain in the back ground, and allow LeFevre to continue in charge. LeFevre, however, had yet another surprise for me, and for the new owners, as well.

The spineless fool stood in front of everyone, and tendered his resignation! Just like that, he was leaving the opera house. The news caused the clamor and confusion to increase, and LaCarlotta, piqued at seeing someone else bethe center of attention, threw a temper tantrum. All was in chaos. In the midst of all of this, a new patron, the young Vicomte DeChagny was announced, further adding to the din. The Vicomte gave a rather predictable and pompous speech about his love of the arts, and was largely ignored save for a few admiring ballet rats. It would have all been quite amusing, if I hadn't so incensed at LeFevre's defection. LeFevre wisely announced his immediate departure. If I had gotten my hands on him, he would have retired in quite a different fashion, and he knew it. He so feared my retribution, that he left the country entirely. It is well that he did.

The chaos gradually faded, and the oh-so-fashionable Vicomte departed, virtually unnoticed. It appeared as if these two new dolts who nominally owned my opera house would at least temporarily be managing it. I groaned at the thought. I had invested so much time in training LeFevre. Now there were two of them to deal with. I was sure they'd never been told of the existence of the Opera Ghost. It would not have been a strong selling point. How was I now going to arrange Christine's first appearance?

Out of the corner of my eye, I observed two of our cleaning women surreptitiously stuffing cotton in their ears. Recognizing what that meant, I glanced over at Carlotta and saw, indeed that she'd allowed herself to be coaxed into singing. A slight smile crept onto my face, and as soon as she began, I was out of my seat, and making my way to the scaffolding above the stage. Buquet was nowhere to be seen, so I waited until the Harpy had moved into place, and then simply released a backdrop on her. It was not intended to harm her, though I cared little if it did. It crashed to the stage, pinning her to the floor. Her shrieks were indistinguishable from her singing, as far as I could discern, and when she was helped to her feet, she was livid. LaCarlotta gathered her little entourage around her, and left, promising never to return. No one seemed upset about that except for our Andre and Firman. They, of course were left with the unenviable responsibility of finding a replacement for Carlotta. As I hoped, Antoinette stepped forward, and offered Christine. They bid her to sing, and she enchanted everyone.

Since that day, I have made a point of keeping abreast of the goings on in the outside world. The newspapers have described every aspect of the following months in vivid, and often lurid detail. I do not wish to dissect those months of madness. The fiasco is still fresh in my mind, and I care not to dwell upon it in depth.

I will say that Christine did perform that night. I was unable to watch her debut, as the two idiots who took over management of my opera allowed the young DeChagny to sit in box five. I heard her, though, and our performance was an absolute triumph. I left a single, perfect red rose, bound in black ribbon for Antoinette to present to Christine from me. I was so proud of my Diva. I felt free to begin formal courtship of her, now. It is what I had been waiting for.

Who knows what might have happened if DeChagny had not recognized Christine? When he came to her dressing room after the performance, I could barely restrain myself from entering the room and strangling him to death. He touched her, and held her, and she smiled at him with such fondness and delight. How could she? I felt the sour taste of betrayal in the back of my throat. It was then that my judgment began to go awry. Anger and jealousy overpowered caution, and I knew I had to act quickly, if I was to keep Christine as my own. As soon as the boy left, I took my first steps towards the insanity that would possess me for the ensuing months. I made myself known to her. I knew she wasn't ready, but I did it anyway. At that time I could think of no other way. I had decided to make her mine entirely that night. I would possess her so completely, that no one could take her away from me. And so I led her deep beneath the cellars of the opera house.

Of course, I failed. She was not ready. I confused and frightened the poor child. What was worse, she saw my face, long before I was ready to show her. I should have warned her not to touch my mask, to leave it alone. The mask holds me together, keeps me composed and strong. Without it, in the presence of another human, I am undone. With my unmasking, the situation began to slip even farther out of my control.

I returned Christine to her world, convincing myself that I still would prevail. I contacted DeChagny, the owners, and dear Carlotta, who of course would not stay gone from the opera house. Il Muto was about to be performed, and I felt that Christine would be perfect as the star. Carlotta needed a lesson in humility, and the audience needed a respite from her screeching. I instructed Andre and Firman as such, as well as demanding my private box be returned to me. There was of course the matter of unpaid salary, and I addressed that as well. DeChagny was warned politely to stay away from Christine, and LaCarlotta was impolitely told that soon she would be without a job.

The newspapers describe quite accurately what transpired on the night that I found that my orders had been ignored. I found my box occupied by the aristocratic ninny, and Carlotta was onstage, strutting and posturing , while my Christine pantomimed at her side. Enraged, I interrupted the opera, using the quirks in its acoustics to amplify my voice. It was not enough. I had to teach them a lesson. The lesson was, of course, Joseph Buquet. I can't think of a more deserving individual to assist me in my demonstration. The man was a foul disgusting thing, who evoked no sympathy in me as I hunted him amidst the ropes and scaffolding above the stage. It was the first time I'd killed since my escape from the carnival. I found it to be quite easy, and very nearly enjoyable.

I had not anticipated visitors on the rooftop that night. I hid in the shadows, and listened to the two of them tear my heart apart. I had just killed a man, and would have loved to kill DeChagnyas well. I could not, not with Christine there. Instead, I had to listen to her frightened description of me,horror and pity blending together in her voice. I shivered in misery as they professed their love for another, my mind reeling with disbelief. It was almost a relief when they left together. For the first time in decades I wept.

In retrospect, I believe that the sane part of my mind knew, that night on the rooftop, that there was no hope. I had lost Christine to someone who could offer her more than just music and darkness. My obsession had become such, however, that I could not see the inevitable. I was losing control, and I desperately needed it back. That is what it all became, in the end…a question of control.

For the next few months, little was seen of Christine. She appeared daily for ballet practice, avoiding any area of the opera house that might bring her in contact with me. Always, after practice, the insipid boy would be waiting for her. They would quickly leave, disappearing into his waiting coach, and out of my reach.

It was during this period that I came across an interesting item in one of the newspapers I'd begun to follow. The article announced that the Comte LeMauvoisin of Rouen, had passed away after a long illness. He had survived all of his children, the piece went on to say, and his title was likely to be settled on one Henri LeMauvoisin, a distant relative.

The swine had survived for all of these years! Old feelings swirled up from the depths of my soul, darekning my vision. He had caused the suffering and death of his wife and all but one of his children The one child who _had_ lived had been relegated to a life of imprisonment and torture, without a twinge of conscience on the part of the Comte LeMauvoisin. I prayed with all of my heart that his last years had been painful ones.

I was about to toss the paper aside, when an idea struck me. Perhaps Christine fancied the trappings of an aristocrat! Perhaps that was the attraction she felt for the boy. If the title of Vicomtess so pleased her, how would she feel about being a Comtess? I closed my eyes, and smiled in relief. I had it in my power to make it so. I did not even have to work for it. It was mine as a birthright! I set about composing a letter to Henri, and made preparations for my journey to Rouen.

I traveled by night, and slept during the day. I had not spent so much time outside in the world in years, and I did not like it. I felt exposed and vulnerable. It was with great relief that I finally arrived at the LeMauvoisin estate. Henri himself met me at the door. He had been convinced that he was going to encounter an imposter intent on defrauding the estate. Therefore, he treated me in a most confrontational manner until I removed my mask for him. I had never been shy about my deformity with Henri, and I felt quite comfortable even now. My face was the only identification Henri required. He burst into tears, and threw his arms around me. Ah, Henri! My cousin, my teacher, my friend! How good it was to see him again.

In the next few days, Henri contacted a solicitor, and we began the process of declaring me alive once more. My father had made it known that I had drowned myself in a fit of despair over my hideous face. Henri said that the swine had made a great show of his grief, and at the time, there was great sympathy for his misfortune. He hadeventually remarried, but his wife gave him no living children, andin timewent the way of my mother.The great foolhad gambled on producing a more suitable heir, andhe'd lost.

Henri himself had married, and had sired a brood of healthy, noisy children. His wife, Eloise, was a kindly little woman, who cheerfully welcomed me, and endeavored to keep her offspring from driving me mad. Neither Henri or Eloise seemed especially concerned that they would be losing the chance of inheriting the LeMauvoisin title. It was enough, Henri explained, to know that I was indeed alive, and returned to them.

I divulged little of my life after the abduction. It was something I could not share, even with Henri. What could I tell him, anyway? Words would merely trivialize what I had experienced. There was no way to express the true horror of my past. I did speak briefly of my present life at the opera, but even then remained reticent about details. I preferred to keep to my room, and after our initial reacquaintence, I saw little of Henri and Eloise. I suppose it was churlish of me, but I am by nature reclusive, and cannot bear the companionship of others for very long. I spent the greater part of my time in Rouen in solitude, putting the finishing touches on my first opera. It was written for Christine, and it had to be perfect. I was very pleased with the finished score. _Don Juan Triumphant _was everything I'd intended it to be.

Eventually my existence became official. Henri vouched for me, and the local court seemed satisfied. Henri was trusted and well respected in the region, and as he had much to lose by my return, and nothing to gain, the feeling was that there could be no trickery involved. Julien LeMauvoisin was alive, and he was now a Comte. He was a very wealthy Comte, as Henri had managed the estate quite well. My father had spent the last years of his life immersed in madness, confined to his room. Henri had been the sole manager of the LeMauvoisin fortune, and it had grown enormously. I now could afford anything I wished.

Unfortunately , the only thing I truly wished for could not be purchased. I returned to Paris, intent on regaining my control of the opera house, and removing the Vicomte's influence over Christine. It was imperative that she should perform in my opera. She was the reason it existed. With that thought, I smiled wryly. It was rapidly becoming apparent to me that she had become the reason that **_I _**existed, as well. We'd put a little time and distance between us of late. No doubt she'd had a chance to think things over. Perhaps she'd be more receptive to me now, after my long silence. Had she missed me? I suddenly found myself longing to see her again.

I had returned home just in time for the Opera Populaire's traditional New Year's masquerade. I had never attended one before, but determined that this was an event that I could not miss. I had the perfect costume in mind. I would dress myself as the Red Death. Had I been thinking clearly, I would never have chosen such flamboyant attire, or made such a spectacle of myself. Of course, had I been thinking clearly, I would not have attended the masquerade at all. I had become imprudent and incautious. All of my years of self-protective anonymity had been tossed away. I was out of control. I can see that now, but at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable.


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera House, or any of its characters._

The masquerade was a fiasco. For what purpose did I even attend? To intimidate? To threaten? Aside from the submission of my opera, which could have been done more effectively and discretely, I accomplished nothing. The fleeting sense of power I felt over the proceedings faded quickly when I saw the ring nestled between Christine's breasts. I reacted rashly, in a fury, snatching the loathsome thing from her, and frightening her once more, in the process. She gasped, and shrank from me. There was nothing left to do but flee, and even the effect of that was ruined, for the idiot Vicomte was right behind me. Obscured in smoke, we both dropped through the trap door. I still regret my rope missed its mark that night. I detest the Vicomte DeChagny to this day. If Christine had never existed, I would still hate him to the very depths of my being. Alas, Antoinette intervened before I could make another attempt, and she led the young fool to safety.

If Antoinette had allied herself with DeChagny, then my situation was desperate. While she knew little about me, she knew enough to cause me great difficulty. It must have been a difficult choice for her to make. Nonetheless, I have never forgiven her for her betrayal. I had no idea what she had told him, and the uncertainty was excruciating. I must act quickly, I felt, while there was still a chance for Christine and myself. Self-delusion is a pitiful thing.

Christine had returned to the dormitories during my absence, no doubt convinced that I was gone for good. Since my grand comeback at the Masquerade, it was impossible to see her in private, as she was never alone. A protective Vicomte even guarded the dormitory entrance as she slept. It was maddening. The days wore on, and I was no closer to my goal. Clearly, I could not go on waiting for an opportunity to meet with her. I would have to orchestrate one for myself. The plan I came up with was cruel, and insidious. It did not matter to me. I would have Christine. It did not matter what it cost either one of us.

And so, when the dolt fell asleep in his chair outside of the dormitory, the Angel came to Christine in her sleep. "You have not come to see me in a long time, Daughter", I whispered. Christine stirred. "Father?" She murmured. "Come to me, Christine, do not forget me. Come to me", I sang softly to her. Satisfied she'd heard the song, I slipped away before she awakened.

The trip to the cemetery was a long, tense one for me. I was grateful that she did not wish to talk to the driver, for I feared she would recognize my voice. We finally arrived, and as she began her progress to Gustav's tomb, I left the carriage, and made ready. What were my intentions? I wonder now. My judgment was clouded, and I'd ceased to reason out my actions. I meant to have Christine, and to my thinking, any means justified the end. It did not matter anymore about my title, or our music, not even my love for her. I was quite used to having my own way in every matter that pertained to my life. Yet, of late I had been repeatedly thwarted and rebuffed by Christine, her dear little Comte, and even by those petty junk dealers who now managed my opera. It was not to be borne, and I meant to take the situation back into my own hands. Starting that day. Starting with Christine. That day I meant to speak with her, uninterrupted. I would speak to her, and she would listen with her mind and with her soul. I would bend her, sway her, and she would understand that she belonged only to me. I cared not who she perceived me to be. I would have her on any terms.

It almost came to pass. I was a hair's breadth from realizing my desire. It began with me in complete control, so sure of the outcome of my plan. It ended with me pinned to the ground like a trapped animal, praying that DeChagny would have the nerve and the decency to kill me. To his credit, he would have ended it, save for Christine's intervention. "No", she had said, "Not this way." In what way, then, Christine, for God's sake, in what way would you finish it? I almost shouted the words to her in frustration and rage, but held my tongue, as they rode off together, leaving me beaten and humiliated. They would both pay, I vowed.

It appeared that Piangi would not be playing Don Juan, after all. I smiled in anticipation, already planning ahead.

There is no point in describing the disaster of _Don Juan Triumphant_. The mere thought of writing it here sickens me. The images have played themselves over and over again in my head, mercilessly clear and precise. I soared as an angel as I performed with Christine, tasting triumph, so sure that the prize was within my grasp. Unmasked, I descended into hell, a maddened beast, an animal bent on destroying all he held dear.

And in the end, when I had truly burned all my bridges, it only took one kiss to bring me to my senses. I looked into Christine's eyes, and they reflected back the thing I had become. Clarity washed over me then, and I knew that it was over. I could not bear to look at her, I could not bear to have her near me. How could I, when I knew that all she would ever feel for me was pity? The very thought was an agony. And so, I let them go. They wasted no time in leaving me, Christine and the Vicomte, eager to be rid of the monster, and eager to start their lives together. The monster, and that is truly what I had become, felt as if _his _life was ending. In a sense, it was. Tears coursed down my face, as I looked around my home for the last time.

I knew that I was being hunted, but there was something that the blood thirsty mob could not suspect. In the years I'd spent under the opera house, I'd had ample time to find escape routes, and to prepare other living quarters. I had always suspected that someday I might be forced to flee my home, and one does not take chances in the underground. My life here was finished. It was time to move on. Everything I'd aspired to now lie in ruins, and it was of my own doing. The bitterness of it burned in my throat.

The mob sounded closer, and I knew I could linger no longer. I shattered the mirror which blocked my escape route, took a deep breath and stepped over the thresh hold. It was over.

**A/N: I'm rather glad this portion of the piece is done. I felt as if I was just recounting the story, toward the end. It had been my intention to fill in the blanks left in the movie, but it was getting tedious, even for me. I'm continuing on for awhile. Erik does exist post-opera house.**


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters._

**A/N: Thank you, Misty Breyer for your kind words. Erik _does _more to say about Christine, but not much. Sour Grapes? Maybe. ;)**

I am not the sole occupant of this dark underworld. There are many who live in the caverns and catacombs which spread endlessly beneath Paris. They are the offal, the rejects of life, thieves, murderers, madmen and grotesques. Some are wanted by the law in the outside world, some are unwanted by anyone. It matters not why they are here. The darkness is not does not care. Together they form a large, loose-knit community, the mirror image of the above-ground city. I've always known of these people, and have avoided them. They have nothing to offer me, and so are nothing to me.

My choices for living quarters were dictated by my desire to have as little to do with these forgotten ones as possible. They tend to settle, as I initially did, along the underground waterways which thread through our world. Knowing this, I sought out places far from the canals and rivers, places that would provide me with safety and anonymity

My present residence is the remains of an old Roman villa, buried, built over, and forgotten for centuries. Nothing remains of the original structure but portions of its ground floor and basement, but there is more than ample space for me. It is filled and furnished with items that reflect my varied and eclectic interests. What's more, I have restored the old Roman bath, and renovated the heating system beneath it. After tapping into both gas and water mains, I now have a luxury I'd never dreamed of. This place has become home to me.

My home is situated under a large elaborate house which is attached to a sizeable park. Soon after I settled in here, I contacted Henri, and through him, the reclusive Comte LeMauvoisin purchased the house as his Paris residence. I did not intend to live there. I have become uncomfortable with windows and open space. I dislike the feeling of vulnerability and exposure such places offer. I much prefer the close comfort of the silence here in the underground. The house, however was a convenient place to conduct the occasional business associated with my title and holdings. Henri manages everything; but I still need to sign papers now and again. I kept a staff of servants there, who tended to things while the Master was "away".

And so, I live, and life is not unbearable. Time has softened the memories of five years past, and I have been able to examine them honestly, my mind unclouded by the passions that governed me then. While I can see the madness that engulfed me, and the fool's quest I was on, I feel little remorse for my actions. After all, what sort of lessons had my life taught me about love, or of any human intimacies? None at all. Everything I knew about the human condition, I'd learned at the opera house, from the operas I so avidly followed. In opera, love is pure and true, and it improbably triumphs over all obstacles. In opera, the wicked are punished, and the hero prevails. And, make no mistake, at that time I was certain that I was the hero. I never knew that the hero could be vanquished, his lover won over by the wicked adversary. That was my first real lesson on the true human drama , and I learned it too late. I have been called a genius. My knowledge and talents are enormous, and yet I am completely ignorant of the human heart. It is not a course of study which I care to renew, however. The first time proved too painful.

This is not to say that I have entombed myself here. Old habits continue. I write my music, and follow my myriad interests. The Opera Populaire has been rebuilt, with the help of very generous donations from the Comte LeMauvoisin. Without my guidance, it rapidly deteriorated into near burlesque, and I withdrew my support. I made use of my own resources, and designed and funded a new opera house to be built on the empty parkland which belongs to me. L'Opera Eclectique is beautiful thing, perfectly designed for my music. And so I once more haunt an opera house, this time not as a ghost, but as the owner. The Comte is known as an eccentric and reclusive genius. I rely on my manager to relay my directives and decisions to the rest of the opera troupe. Christien, oldest son of Henri, serves me well in this capacity. He is a capable young man, who does not question my choice of communication. I still prefer the written word over the spoken for this manner of business. It is more reliable, I feel, less subject to misunderstanding. It also spares me the necessity of personal contact with another human being, a prospect that becomes less and less attractive as time wears on.

Of course, L'Opera Eclectique showcases my own work. It was what it was designed for. I also feature opera by other composers, if I feel that the music is suitable. It must be different and unique. There are not many who have the sensibilities to appreciate this music. The few who do are regular and enthusiastic patrons of my opera house. The others who attend the opera do so because it is now considered chic to be seen there. They are idiots, but they are paying idiots, and L'Opera Eclectique is a success.

I have my private opera box, of course, where I can sit unobserved, and enjoy my music. I initially had toyed with taking box five as my own, amused by the irony of it. In the end, I decided on box two. Box five provides a poor view of the stage, and so I assigned it to the Vicomte and Vicomtess DeChagny when they became patrons. How droll it is to watch them there. What consternation it would cause should they discover who the Comte LeMauvoisin truly is! It is my own secret joke, and I never tire of it.

I have observed that the DeChagny's are well suited for one another, far more so than Christine and I would have been. She was brought up in the rarified atmosphere of the opera house, and while she was well educated in dance, and of music, she knew of little else. I had spent years expanding my realm of knowledge and expertise, while Christine remained sheltered and limited. Much of the simplicity and innocence which had appealed so greatly to me, was simply her lack of more than a basic education. I wonder now what would have happened if she had chosen me over the little Vicomte. What would we have talked about? We could not always be singing, or making love. What pastimes could we have spent together? I know that having been her teacher for so many years, I would not have had the patience to begin again. I suspect that in time our relationship would have palled on me. And then what would I have done? Could I have sent her away with the full knowledge of me and all of my secrets. I doubt it, and I care not to think about what I might have done. Instead, I prefer to watch the Vicomte and Vicomtess, and smile at what an adorable, and rather shallow couple they make together. It has worked out for the best.


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or any of its characters. I do own three cats, a beat-up Chevrolet, and a really nifty collection ofTibetan flute music, though._

_**A/N: This is a short one, so I'll put it up tonight. **_

****

The damnable little priest came calling tonight. I had just set my pen aside, weary from writing, and was hardly in the mood to see his small stout form at my doorway. I tried to beg off of his intended visit. It was late, I said, and I was tired. Some other evening, perhaps? As usual the annoying little man would not listen, but instead peered around me, and smiled with satisfaction at the pile of writing paper on my table. Ah, well. I grudgingly invited him inside. It does me well not to argue with Pere Simon. I never win. He has invaded my privacy, and has taken liberties with me that would kill other men, and yet I do nothing. Quite honestly, I am at a loss to know what to do, and so I reluctantly tolerate his presence.

The priest sat down without invitation, and began rummaging through the large woven sack he always carries. This time, no ink or paper were forthcoming. Instead, he produced a bottle of wine. He offered it to me, and as usual, was quite nonplussed when I told him that I do not imbibe. As always, he then asked if I minded if he partook of a bit of it, just to slake his thirst. As always, I brought him a goblet. We go through this charade each time Pere Simon brings his wine. I think it amuses the both of us.

The wine loosens Pere Simon's tongue, and he will talk for hours. I do not think it matters to him if I am listening or not. I most usually do listen, however. I really have no choice. I am not used to having such a cheerful voice echoing from the walls of my home. It is hard to ignore such a sound.

On one such occasion, Pere Simon confided that the cause of his downfall was twofold. His disgrace was due to his enthusiasm for the Sacramental Wine, and his rather irreverent and outspoken opinions of his superiors. One does not call his Monsignor a "Jackass in a Cassock". It is a politically unwise thing to do. Retribution was swift and final for the little priest. He quickly found himself cast out of the church, relieved of his priesthood. If this troubled him one whit, it is not noticeable. He merely took to the poorer sections of Paris, helping the dregs of society as best he could. From there, he gradually made his way beneath the city, and began ministering to the wretched outcasts he found there. The world of the outcasts is not always a safe one, and I've wondered how he has managed to survive. There are places here that I myself am wary of which Pere Simon frequents without fear. The denizens welcome him, and provide him safe passage. Perhaps if there is a God, He grants fools a special dispensation.

Tonight, Pere Simon did not wish to talk. I met this statement with some relief, until I saw him eyeing the table and the mess of papers lying on it. "Very well", I finally said, "pry into my personal affairs if you wish. It is only what you deserve." I seated myself in the far corner of the room, and watched the little man pour himself more wine, and proceed to read. I expected to see tears, I expected him to glance up at me in horror. I was rewarded with neither of those reactions. He calmly continued to read, page after page, until I grew quite bored.

The wine bottle was empty by the time the little man was done reading. He stood up, stretched and smiled angelically at me. This was not exactly the response I'd anticipated. I'd rather hoped he'd gotten at least an inkling of thenature of creature he'd been trifling with. I consoled myself with the thought that he was no doubt drunk.

In the end, he merely thankedme for sharing my memories with him, and made ready to leave. I was astounded. Had I not allowed him to know more about me than I'd ever trusted anyone with before? How could he so coolly walk out of my home, without even a word? It seemed, however, that I need not of fretted, for Pere Simon always has something to say. As I walked him to the door, he paused. "There is more" he said. I pretended not to hear him, but as usual, it did not work. "You have more to write" he insisted, "You must continue." I refused to answer him. What more could I write? I'd wrung my brain dry. Pere Simon smiled, and patted me on the back. _Why_ _does he insist on doing that, when he knows I detest such contact?_ "You are a brave man, and a good soul, and I will be back to read more"he said jovially.I told him that there would be no more. I was done. The little priest just smiled at me, and made his way down the passageway. I watched him until he was out of sight. What an odd little man.

I must now prepare for sleep. It has been a difficult day, and I am exhausted.


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera in any size shape or form, nor do I own its characters._

It is an aggravation that the little pest was right. For days after his visit, I avoided my writing desk as if it harbored snakes. It did no good. There is more to write, and the compulsion to finish is greater than the aversion for the task. And so I sit here, pen in hand, prepared once again to open locked doors.

The underground of Paris is a vast network of tunnels, catacombs and ancient quarries. Even I, who have been a denizen for some many years, do not know the full extent of this dark world. It is a dangerous place, and even one as experienced as I must negotiate carefully. There are, in the darkness, chasms and ravines which wait to take the careless traveler. In the maze of tunnels, unmarked and identical in feature, it easy to lose one's way. The tunnels are littered with the remains of lost ones, who entered this realm never to return to the outside world. The natural dangers of this underworld are frightening enough, but nothing compared with the two- legged predators I encountered when I first left my home beneath the Opera house.

I had not known what a fortunate choice I had made when I removed myself to that little island on the lake. It was a remote part of the underground, difficult to access and nearly forgotten. The gate and the curtains I'd placed over the entrance to the cavern ensured my privacy, and I was never once troubled by another inhabatant of the world beneath Paris. Such was not my experience after I removed myself from there.

At that time, the underground was infested with the lowest order of humanity, the ones who preyed upon their own kind. The outcasts lived in terror of these predators, who were remorseless in their cruelties. They would kill for a pocket watch, slaughter a family for a pair of shoes or a bottle of wine. The worst killed for the mere pleasure of it, and with no fear of retrubution. Who could these outcasts report the depradations to? The world of light cared nothing for those souls who lived in the world of darkeness. Many of these beastes lived in the world above, entering the tunnels only to hunt for prey. Others existed below the ground, conveniently sharing the same world as there victims. This was the state of affairs when I first came to my present living quarters.

I immediately became aware of activities of the creatures. I saw much as I moved through the passages and tunnels of my new environs, and marveled at why I was considered a monster while beasts such as these existed. I moved as a shadow, and none knew of my passing. I was content to remain unknown. There was safety in anonymity. The outcasts would fend for themselves as they always had, and I would tend to my own well-being. That is how I felt then, and that is how I feel now. They are none of my concern.

What _was_ my concern, in the first six months of my new life, is that two legged rats, as adept at hiding in shadows as I, attacked me, not once, but on two separate occasions. The first time, the attack was made by a solitary predator, confident that the well dressed gentleman must be rich, drunk and lost. Because of this he was careless, and I easily relieved him of his dagger and turned it against him. I left his corpse lying in the tunnel, as a message to others of his kind. The second attack must have been planned. There were three of them, and they were waiting for me, around a bend in the tunnel. It was a route I usually took when I was taking my nightly exercise, and one of them must have noticed. They took me by surprise, and very nearly made an end to me. They would not have been a problem had I not been off guard. As it was, they quickly had me cornered, and in desperation, I tore off my mask. It did not frighten them away, as I had hoped, but it startled them, and allowed be to gain space and the upper hand. My lasso dispatched one, my knife, another. The other escaped while I was finishing off his comrades. I replaced my mask, and smiled wryly. For once, my accursed face had proven a blessing.

I returned home, and spent sometime reflecting on my situation, and considering my options. I needed to travel freely through the underground, and did not wish to curtail my movements for fear of my safety. I knew that sooner or later I'd be attacked again. There were too many hunters out there. I wondered how long it would be before I made a careless and fatal error, and became just another pile of bones littering the tunnel floor. I could leave, I knew. There were other places I'd prepared for myself. Where, though, could I go where these savages would not also be? They were like rats. They were everywhere.

It was then I decided that I would stay. I would ensure my safety in the only way I knew how. That night I declared war on the Rats of the underground. I had hunted men before, and felt no qualms about doing again. I sat there, long past the time of sleeping, making my plans.

For the next year, I hunted two-legged rats. I stalked them singly, I pursued them in groups. I flushed them out of their hiding places amongst the bones of the ancient dead. I moved silently, using the shadows , and often my skills of ventriloquism and illusion to confuse my prey. I left the vermin I exterminated where they lie, and soon stories began to spread of the ghost that haunted the underground passages. The few prey which escaped me spread the myth even further. By the end of the year, there were fewer and fewer Rats to catch, and the underground grew peaceful. Those wretched miscreants who had avoided my vengeance began to flee to the outside world, no doubt to bedevil the poor wretches who reside there.

And so, I have much blood on my hands. I have killed since the Opera House disaster, and I shall kill again if I need to. There is no law here below the streets of Paris but the law of survival. As long as I remain clever and fit, I shall survive. When I am no longer able to fend for myself, I will end. I am quite healthy, and as resourceful as the devil, and so expect to remain in this realm for many more years. It is not always a comforting prospect.

It occurs to me that the first time I ever saw Pere Simon was during that year of hunting. The little liar swears that it never happened, but I remember it clearly. I was making my rounds late one night, when I heard a terrible screaming somewhere ahead of me. I made my way closer to the sound, and soon found myself standing on a ledge overlooking a cavern. I recognized it as a place favored by predators for the sport of killing. It was large, and had a narrow, racing river moving through the center of it. The river provided an excellent means of disposing of a body once the killer was done.

Presently the cavern had two occupants, a foul looking man, and a tearful screaming girl. She may have been a resident of the underground, or some poor wretch that had been dragged from the streets of Paris. Either way, she'd been brought here, and it looked as if she would not be leaving again. The man obviously had been beating the girl, and now had her pinned to the ground and was tearing at her garments. It was not difficult to guess what his intentions were. I was determining how best to descend into the cavern unobserved, when I caught a slight motion from its entrance. There, moving quietly through the entryway was a small balding man, dressed in the garments of a priest! For a moment I wondered if my mind was leaving me, and I closed my eyes tightly to clear my vision. When I opened them again, the little man was still there, walking silently up behind the Rat. I watched incredulously as the priest slowly picked up a rock from the cavern floor, and smashed the man's head in with it. He then hastily said some prayer over the creature's body, and rolled it into the river. I could only stare in bemusement as the little fellow helped the sobbing girl to her feet, and guided her out of the cavern.

That was the last I saw of Pere Simon until the day, some months later, that he simply showed up at my door. I was not happy to see him there. I would not have been happy to see _anyone_ there, for that matter. It was of utmost importance to me that my home remain well hidden. He seemed surprised at my concern, and was not the least bit worried about his safety, now that he knew about me. I have killed men to protect my privacy, and I briefly considered doing the same for this intruder. Somehow, however it never happened. Instead, he was in my home, and I was bringing him a goblet for the wine he brought.

He had come, he explained, to thank me for my great services to his flock. I'm afraid I gaped at him quite stupidly, as I had not one idea of what he was talking about. He appeared not to notice, and continued on. It was a miracle, he said, that I had come to protect his people from the crimes that were being committed against them. He smiled and called me a selfless and noble man. I almost laughed in the poor man's face. So, _that_ is what is was all about! My vigilantism was solely for the purpose of protecting myself, I told the little fool. It was no concern of mine how anyone else fared. It was their own problem. "Perhaps that is what you think," smiled the little priest, "But just the same, you have done a great thing. The people of the underground call you their Guardian Angel".

Guardian Angel? I almost strangled the little man. Pah! I was Christine's Angel of Music, the newspapers called me the Angel of Death, and now this! Now I was the Guardian Angel of the lost and unwanted of the underground.

Why do I always have to be someone's _Angel?_


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera in any form, nor do I own any of its characters._

My life is not one I would have chosen had I been asked. I was not asked, however, and so must be content with the one I was given. It has not been an easy life, nor an especially pleasant one. I had no control over my beginnings, or the forces and conflicts which molded me. I can say honestly and with some pride, that as soon as I gained control of my existence, I was the master of it. I made the choices, good or ill, and the sweetness and bitterness that have resulted are my sole responsibility.

Where I once decried my solitary existence, I nowrecognize it as a friend. It has given me much time for reflection, and I know myself quite well. There are parts of my soul that were twisted and stunted years ago, and I know that there is nothing in this life that will make them whole. I have been called mad, and no doubt I am to some degree. It is a refined madness, however, and it allows me brilliant creativity, and a fully lucid and analytical mind. Where I once craved love and acceptance in the human world, I now understand that I am not capable of supporting such things. Selflessness is not in my nature. I must own, possess and control, and my passions run to anger and violence when I do not get my way. My deep distrust for humanity dictates that I must not give of myself, nor accept too much from another.

As an adult, I have made no true friendships. Antoinette did me great service in the months after the fire, misleading the authorities, and keeping me apprised of the manhunt. Herold betrayal still rankles, however merited it was at the time. And while she is a staunch ally, she is not a friend. Henri is a good man. On his visits to Paris he supplied me with the story of my infancy, most of which he had gleaned from servant's gossip. Our childhood friendship has never rekindled and he remains my faithful estate manager. Pere Simon, curiously enough, is the one man I do trust. As annoying as the little man its, I would trust him with my life. I do not call him friend, however. One's friends should not make one's fingers itch to strangle them. And so, I am still very much alone. I am resigned to it, and have come to terms with my solitary existence.

It is certain that I shall die without issue. That is how it should be. I would not pass on this legacy of anger and bitterness to another generation. One of Henri's brood will inherit the LeMauvoisin title and estate, and the name, at least, shall continue.

Me, I have come to an understaning with myself. I am quite comfortable with my devils. The past still haunts me, bitterly at times, yet the past is the path that has led me to the present. I am free to create, and my music fills L'Opera Eclectique, delighting the ear of the listener. This is a dream come true for me, one that I've labored for years to realize. Five buildings now stand in Paris, all of my design. They are beautiful things, each one a song in itself. The name Julien LeMauvoisin is becoming quite well known in the city. Yet, he refuses to be seen in public.

The Phantom of the Opera Populaire is still remembered, hated and hunted, even five years after he disappeared. The Comte LeMauvoisin, however, is above reproach and is well repected by Parisian society. The fools have never met me, but it matters not. I am a Comte, and therefore a highly respectable personage. I have certainly learned to laugh in the past five years.

Pere Simon will be pleased to know that I have finally completed my writing. I wonder what excuse he will use now when he comes to bother me? I'm sure he will think of something, as I suspect that he intends to plague me for the rest of my days.

In writing these final words, it has come to me that I should take one last trip to Rouen. I will take this recounting of my life with me when I go. There is a portrait of my mother there, hanging above the drawing room fireplace. If I carefully slit its backing just a little, these papers should fit quite nicely. It will be a perfect hiding place, and hopefully it will not be found for many years. It is fitting and proper that some future LeMauvoisin find it. Our family needs to be taken down a peg or two once in awhile. Learning about me should certainly do it. I chuckle at the thought.

My writing is at an end, thank all that is merciful. Blast you Pere Simon for causing me to start.

_**Finis**_

-_Erik Le Fantôme de L'Opéra, également connu sous le nom de Julien LeMauvoisin _


End file.
